The search for Gordon Brown's soul goes on

The new thriller from Robert Harris is a mystery about a Prime Minister's ghost-writer. But a whodunit even darker than The Ghost haunted delegates at Labour's conference - the identity of the figure ghosting Gordon Brown's speeches.

It became controversial, as much seemed familiar. And this could not be blamed on Brown's banality and vacuity. Well, not entirely, for he mouthed phrases remarkably reminiscent of those celebrated orators, Al Gore and John Kerry. And their speechwriter was one Robert Shrum, who many think is secretly the nearest Brown has to an Alastair Campbell.

As one of Tony Blair's former aides says privately: 'Whenever Gordon gives a speech centring on the phrase, "We are the generation who ...", you know Shrum has been in town.'

If Shrum's ethereal presence could be divined in Bournemouth, the American must have deployed all his powers of irony on a speech that banged on - and on - about Britishness. Oh, and about patriotism, when Brown has subjugated Britain's national interest in Iraq to provide political cover for America.

It shouldn't matter overly who writes the words, though it does show New Labour's star-struck deference to America. That and how they miss Campbell; I've written much about Ali, none of it pleasant, but at least he could turn a phrase, which is not an accusation one would hurl lightly in Shrum's direction.

So when the Times, which increasingly seems like official cheerleader for New Labour, fingered Shrum, Brown's people should have ignored it. Instead, they went ape, muttering about dirty tricks. For, actually, this goes to the heart of the question they fear: what is Brown really for - other than being Prime Minister?

If his deepest political thoughts can be expressed by an American backroom boy, using the template of a presidential candidate's speech, what prospect is there that an election mandate would acually inspire Brown to deliver 'real' Labour policies? Indeed, when he frothed about 'British jobs for British workers' and pledged to be beastly to foreigners, it sounded less like socialism than national socialism. Forget Gore; the cove claiming copyright will be the BNP's Nick Griffin.

If Brown believes this stuff, God knows why Labour delegates were quite so rapturous - for then they have a leader far to the right of the one they just axed for being too right wing. Even Brown's latest admirer, Norman Tebbit, may soon be murmuring: 'Steady, old boy ...'

Alternatively, Brown may not believe any of his speech; well, he must know he can't deport EU criminals, for instance. But if his speech was mere electoral posturing, it's worse - it exposes him as a fraud.

Guess what this reminds me of? For the first few years of John Major's premiership, intelligent people would squint and ask: 'What does the PM really believe in?', until it eventually dawned that speculation was futile: Major would say whatever it took to retain power.

We might have identified Brown's ghost, but I wish you luck in the search for his soul.

Tasteless? Elton? Perhaps, but not when it comes to contemporary art

Any prosecution connected with Elton John, below, is to be welcomed. I would have him - and his tailor - banged up to be taught taste and manners. He could only earn remission by burning every suit he has ever worn, particular during his Kiki Dee period and by signing the Fancy Dress Offenders' Register.

But with this latest rumpus about 'paedophile art', in which a photo he owns was seized by police, I'd cheerfully appear as a character witness. Even if one of the girls is - ooh, matron! - naked.

Unless there is some killer detail we have not been entrusted with, it is the police who have warped imaginations, not John, or Nan Goldin, the snapper. A bod from the CEOP Centre, an anti-child pornography group, counters: 'You can't tell who is in your gallery and why they are looking at images.' I should hope not. If you must calculate how art might affect every warped mind, you wouldn't exhibit anything racier than a watercolour by Prince Charles.

You should've been there, James

Artifice emerges as an unpalatable ingredient of Nigella Lawson's cookery shows. The goddess is seen in her domestic heaven, which is actually a studio. And now on a bus. This alone tells us we are being served something fishy - does Mrs Saatchi do municipal transport? Inevitably, the bus was chartered and background types lolling, gawping, graffiti-ing or whatever, were extras.

But so what? It's entertainment, of sorts. If Nigella's love buns look unusually flat, who minds if they are given a lift for the perfect shot? The answer: James Purnell, young thruster in charge of media regulation. He can summon enough outrage in attacking media fakery to outdo Lord Shaftesbury on children being pushed up chimneys: 'In politics and television, you devalue the only currency you have if you forfeit the trust of the public,' he intoned, warning TV suits to get their 'house in order' after a 'bad year'. In these pages last week, he observed: 'The irony of a politician lecturing anyone on loss of trust isn't lost on me.'

Just so. For after arriving too late for a photo-op with MPs, he agreed to be snapped later in an adjacent spot, his image superimposed on the earlier shot. He insists this was done without his knowledge, but on Labour's past form, all one can say is 'Hmm'. As with Nigella, is it a case of 'so what'? Isn't politics showbiz too? Except this photo was sent to newspapers as a real event. What next? Photos of James the Trusted meeting Mandela, Madonna and Socrates? Calls for resignations seem equally contrived, but in future, James, easy on the lectures.

Only Michael Moore could think that France is a healthy place

Not yet recovered from those headaches and fits of vomiting you used to suffer whenever Patricia Hewitt appeared on television to tell you how fantastic she had made the NHS? Then avoid Sicko, Michael Moore's new movie. Compared to Moore, left, our erstwhile Health Secretary is a feral critic of Labour's record.

Sicko has great fun contrasting the British 'free at the point of delivery' system with America's 'can't pay at the point of non-delivery non-system'. I was swelling with patriotic pride until I realised that it wasn't quite true. Our parents are shown battling stoically through the Blitz ('a 9/11 every day'), then building a new Jerusalem of bedpans and Health Service specs. The NHS did deal with rickets, but what did it do for a rickety economy? As Moore lugs himself round a suspiciously clean London hospital chatting to smiley, healthy Brits, he utters faux-naive questions: 'Whaddaya mean, no one pays? Clearly I'm the butt of a joke here ...'

Moore depicts America as barbaric. A man forced to decide which of two severed fingers to save as he can only afford an operation on one; a hospital dropping an injured woman 'on the side of a road like garbage' because she has no money; health companies lying to deny the supposedly lucky, insured middle classes life-saving treatment.

Which is shocking: no wonder Europeans think need, not means, should determine provision. But by the time we are lectured by Tony Benn, the film becomes parody. I, too, have sat beguiled before Benn, yet have come out thinking: 'Yes, but your type of socialism brought economic ruin.' Moore lets Benn go unchallenged. There is no mention of how the NHS is no more efficient than prior to Labour's massive spending increase or that choice, despite the noble efforts of Alan Milburn, remains essentially alien.